


My sword is yours

by Shotgun_Cake



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: (How did I make this angsty? I don't know but it is... Who am I?), Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Blood and Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Knight Martín, M/M, Middle Ages Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prince Andrés, Secret Relationship, Smut, princes & knights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25796995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/pseuds/Shotgun_Cake
Summary: “My allegiance is no secret, Your Grace”, Martín says, looking up at him. “I shall serve you until my dying day, my life is yours, my sword is yours, always.”Familiar words, that never fail to bring a smile to Andrés's lips. He can tell his tone is mocking, and he doesn't care for that attitude. But he also knows how much Martín means those words. They ring deep and true.~~~OR: a Prince/Knight AU set in the Medieval Era
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Tokyo | Silene Oliveira/Tatiana (La casa de papel)
Comments: 82
Kudos: 143
Collections: Berlermo Bingo





	1. Heavy is the crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ruttopoika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruttopoika/gifts).



> This story was written to answer [this prompt](https://twitter.com/berlermowishes/status/1292155270341300225) on the [Berlermo Wishlist](https://twitter.com/berlermowishes). Thank you Johnny for requesting it, I've been dying to try my hand at a Prince AU for a while. And now I have. Bless!
> 
> Special thanks to [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap) and [dashwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood) for their precious headcanons. One day, you will find out I am stealing from you, and I will get the boot like I deserve. In the meantime, I'll keep dancing to your tunes. I love you.

Andrés de Fonollosa, crown prince of the Berlín dynasty, always thought that he would die in battle. Or, in an ideal scenario, that he would die of old age, bidding a final goodnight to a grateful and prosperous kingdom. But he was wrong about that. Because it seems, based on his recent observations, that Andrés is going to die of boredom. 

A feeling that is becoming quite familiar, whenever his most trusted companion fails to be found by his side. A major affront, that shall not go unpunished. 

He looks for him in the crowd, hoping to meet his eyes from across the room. To find equal boredom on his face, perhaps a mocking smile. _Heavy is the crown, isn't it Your Highness?_

But for now, Martín is nowhere to be found, and Andrés's neck is aching again. The evening has turned into night, and an entire day spent wearing that godforsaken crown is making itself felt on his strained muscles.

The feast has been going on for quite some time, and he doesn't have the luxury of eclipsing himself whenever he pleases, like he would if he were home. This banquet was not thrown in his honor, and therefore he has very little interest in it. 

Princess Tatiana is pleasant enough, and the Royal Council did imply that declining to attend her Name Day Celebration would not send the right message, from a diplomatic standpoint. But Andrés suspects they had other motives in sending him here. Sergio, especially, made a point to mention how beautiful and charming Tatiana was told to be. Andrés is not duped. His brother's attempts at getting him to finally pick a bride are getting less and less subtle. 

Sergio wasn't wrong. Andrés has been quite entertained by Tatiana, for a while. The bards didn't lie when they sang of her beauty, but he was surprised to find her intelligent as well. Bright and witty. Although, he supposes the mind of a lady is not what the masses want to hear about in the songs. A shame, truly. There is potential in that one. 

But Andrés's entertainment was cut short when the dark haired whore got to his table. Tatiana's handmaiden sat by her side, unprompted, and pulled her attention away from him. The princess did not dare interrupt her polite conversation with Andrés, but her eyes kept darting towards the intruder - Silene, he gathered - and he could sense her distraction. Her disinterest in him, blatant and offensive. 

Andrés sets down his crown on the table in front of him. He breathes a sigh of relief and leans back on his chair. When he hears a chuckle, he looks up to the handmaiden staring at him. No doubt, mocking his weakness. Or perhaps, smiling in victory. 

If Andrés were in his own kingdom, he'd have her beheaded on the spot. But he isn't. And he's not here to start a war, quite the opposite. He's been sent to maintain their countries' friendly rapport. Actually, no. He's been sent to strengthen that alliance. Through marriage. 

He has no intention to do so. 

When Tatiana turns towards her handmaiden one too many times, Andrés decides enough is enough. One last offense. He doesn't excuse himself from the table, he simply stands up and makes a swift exit, silent and unnoticed. He quickly finds the path to the courtyard, the only part of this castle that isn't swarming with well-meaning bootlickers. Andrés hears the clinking noises before he spots their silhouettes. Only two men appear to be in the courtyard. One of them, the one he was hoping to find. 

Both knights are engaged in a sword fight, an amicable one obviously. Martín is smiling, as he often does when he trains. At least one of them has been enjoying himself tonight. 

Martín always liked to practice with the knights of foreign kingdoms. To hone his fighting skills and incorporate new techniques. Always a fascinating spectacle. Especially tonight, when they are dressed their finest garments, not restrained in their movements like they would be in full armor. 

He slowly approaches the pair and observes them for a while, silent. Captivated. 

Martín's opponent is massive, and undoubtedly stronger than him. But Andrés's knight is leaner, faster, and he uses it to his advantage. The other man's blows would probably be devastating, and still, these two seem to be evenly matched. Perhaps Martín even has a slight advantage, or is that simply wishful thinking?

The torches set up all around the courtyard cast their warm glow over the jousting figures, highlighting the crimson red of their formal outfit. And the leather, black and polished, of Martín’s breastplate. Andrés prefers it to the shining armor. Andrés prefers to see him. 

As the fighting men switch positions, the bearded knight spots Andrés watching them and immediately stills.

_“Your Highness!”_

The man promptly gets down on one knee and holds his sword in front of him, pointing to the paved stone. Andrés decides he likes him. A man who knows his rank.

Martín doesn't do any of that. He just laughs, gently tapping the other man on the shoulder. 

“That's not fair! I was about to win! You don't have to do that _right now.”_

The kneeling man looks up, confused, but Andrés's eyes are on Martín.

“Actually, he _does_ have to do that. And so do you. If you were to follow protocol, that is.”

Martín is still grinning at him. Insolent. 

“Since when are you such a stickler for the rules, Andrés?”

The other man looks at him with wide eyes, convinced Martín is about to lose his head, any moment now. And it would be the case, if it were anyone else. 

But they have an audience. Formality is expected of them.

“Is that how you speak to your liege? I might have grown too soft on you. You would do well to follow your friend’s example and remember your place.”

His knight treats him to another taunting smile, but he does kneel in front of Andrés. One knee to the ground, holding out his sword, his head bowed in devotion. 

Much better. 

“My allegiance is no secret, Your Grace”, Martín says, looking up at him. “I shall serve you until my dying day, my life is yours, my sword is yours, always.”

Familiar words, that never fail to bring a smile to Andrés's lips. He can tell his tone is mocking, and he doesn't care for that attitude. But he also knows how much Martín means those words. They ring deep and true. 

It pleases him when Martín follows protocole, but Andrés never demanded that from him. Not when they have no obligation to do so. Martín is the only man who dares speak to him in such a tone. And Andrés likes that about him. He's loyal and devoted, yes, but honest too. He cannot be an equal to Andrés. But he feels like one.

Still, Andrés does enjoy seeing him on his knees for him. A show of submission. 

Martín is right. Andrés is not a stickler for etiquette. But he enjoys the fanfare of it. And he does need to keep his subjects in line. It's important that people remember to kneel for him. Martín, more than anyone else. 

Andrés turns to the other knight, still bowed and silent.

“You may rise, Ser…”, he starts, realizing he doesn't know his name. 

“Mirko, Your Highness”, the man replies, standing up. “Not Ser, just Mirko. I'm not a knight.”

Well, if a man of that stature hasn't been knighted yet, perhaps Andrés shouldn't be associated with this kingdom. They clearly don't know how to use their resources. 

“Your liege requested you”, Andrés says to Mirko, who bows his head respectfully before hurrying inside. 

That was a lie. Andrés doesn't even know where his allegiance lies. He just wanted the man gone.

He looks back to Martín, still on his knees before him. His smile has returned, but his eyes have grown bright. Fervent.

“Rise, Ser Martín. You may face your king again.”

“Not a king yet, Your Grace”, is what Martín has the audacity to reply. 

Helpfully reminding Andrés of the reason he went looking for him in the first place. 

He looks at Martín intently and tilts his head towards the gallery, before turning his back to him and making his way across the courtyard. He steps behind the high columns and smiles as he hears the faint sound of footsteps following him. 

The place is still empty, but he would rather be shielded from any possible onlookers. 

When Martín has caught up on him, Andrés grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him into an alcove, pressing his body against his as they both lean on the cold stone. 

Martín's breath catches and Andrés's hand wraps around his throat. Not squeezing. But pressing.

“Your sword is mine, is it?”, Andrés repeats. 

Martín looks back at him with glassy eyes and parted lips. It's even better for Andrés, knowing that his knight doesn't actually fear his wrath. He enjoys it, really.

Martín eventually speaks.

“Yes, Your Grace. Of course my sword is yours, always has been. In more ways than one.”

Andrés smiles. He doesn't acknowledge the innuendo. He does slide his hand away from Martín's neck, and up the side of his face. Caressing his cheek. 

“I am relieved to find you still know your place.” 

Martín nods fervently, leaning into the touch. Such a devoted subject. The most devoted of them all. Andrés enjoys the reminder, still. He wants another one.

“Your prince demands a show of your fealty”, he commands. 

They both smile at that, and even if it's Andrés who holds him, who pushes him against the wall, Martín is the one to cup his face and close the distance between them. Reverently. A gentle promise. He lets their lips brush, lets his knight's kiss consume him.

Only when he's decided that Martín has proven himself enough does Andrés take over. His lips move faster, insistent. His hand slides into Martín's hair, soft under his touch, and he pulls. Hard. Bending his neck abruptly, probably painfully. Devouring him.

When a knight is anointed, it is customary for him to kiss his Lord on the lips. A promise of loyalty, of devotion. The ceremony is performed in front of the entire court, but Andrés fails to remember any detail besides that. Besides Martín, and the promises they made to each other. Andrés only ever took one knight in his personal service. The kiss Martín gave him that day was their first. The only one that was ever seen. The only one that was ever permitted. 

Very different from all the kisses they've exchanged since. Very different from the one Martín is giving him right now. 

Andrés often demands Martín be the one to initiate. When he does, he can be reminded of his vow. He can be reminded that Martín belongs to him, that he always will. 

But the opposite is true as well. Andrés also swore a vow to Martín. To provide for him. To bring honor on his name. To be a powerful ruler, worthy of his allegiance. 

What the maidens sing about, of knights in shining armor, of gallant princes and church bells, he felt it that day. And every day since. 

Andrés moves his lips to Martín's neck, and he can feel his knight growing impatient. His hands start roaming. Across Andrés's back. Lower than that. Playing with the seam of his pants. 

“Any of your refined ladies get on their knees for you yet?”

Andrés smiles against his skin. He's not subtle.

“You would know it if they had.” 

He feels the sigh of relief even before he hears it. Andrés slides a thigh between Martín's legs, pleased to feel exactly what he was expecting. 

“What will you do when one of them tries?” 

Andrés is impressed that he even asked. Especially in this moment. He leans back to look at his face again.

“If one of them tries… Maybe I'll let her.” 

There is hurt in Martín's eyes, and Andrés smiles. Of course he does. He knows this love he's been given is not selfish, he knows he's allowed to have whoever he wants. But still, Martín is jealous. Still, it hurts him to know Andrés is to be shared. 

Martín is his to have, and only his; but the same cannot be said of Andrés. No matter how much they both prayed for it.

But Martín fights the pain. He gulps loudly, schooling his features.

“Well, then. Maybe you don't need me for this, _Your Grace_...”

Andrés usually loves it when Martín calls him that. Your Grace. _Especially_ in such intimate moments. But this time, it sounds like an insult. There's poison in his tone, defiance in his eyes.

“You're right”, Andrés confirms. “I do not _need_ _you_ for any of this.”

Martín closes his eyes, taking in a sharp breath. Trying to calm himself in spite of his words. In spite of his touch.

“Then why am I here, Andrés?”

“You're here because your liege commands it.”

_Because I might not need you, but I want you._

_I_ _chose you._

If Andrés were a weaker man, he might say those words out loud. He doesn't. His status prevents it. Martín knows anyway. 

Andrés lets go of his hair, but still holds him in place.

“You should return to your lady, Your Grace. She might have something better to offer.” 

Impossible.

“Remember to watch your tone”, is what Andrés says instead. 

But his knight is right. He must return to Tatiana. 

“You're relieved of your duties for the night, Ser Martín.”

The look of shock on his face is worth the provocation. All the looks on Martín's face are worth quite a lot.

Andrés takes a step back and turns on his feet, leaving Martín in the shadows of the alcove. 

Barely a second has passed before his voice pipes up.

“Andrés?”

Not _Your Grace_. Delightful.

He turns around to face him again. Martín hasn't moved.

“Am I no longer to meet you in your chambers, tonight?”

Andrés laughs softly. 

“Of course you are. I would be terribly disappointed if you didn't.”

Martín lets out a small whimper and kneels in front of him again. On one knee, as he's supposed to. A knightly stance. He takes Andrés's hand and brings it to his lips. Grateful to be allowed. Grateful to still be wanted.

Andrés cups his face one last time and smiles at him, before making his exit. He doesn't look back. He knows Martín's eyes will not leave him until he enters the building. 

He does hope Tatiana doesn’t try anything tonight. If she does, he might let her. Or he might stop her. He hasn't decided yet. Either way, he will not think of her. He will think of Martín. Of him and only him.

Whatever happens tonight, Andrés knows he'll find him in his quarters afterwards.

Because whatever happens, this knight of his will always be where his heart lies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art inspired by this chapter](https://twitter.com/renzauxart/status/1306205344708739073) (!!!) created by @[renzauxart](https://twitter.com/renzauxart)  
> Thank you!!
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Story added to the [Berlermo Bingo](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Summer2020) Collection, in the category _"Jealousy"_.


	2. A knight's favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ser Martín assumes the position, waving at his audience proudly, but he's starting to feel trapped in there, like his armor is caving in, swallowing him. He sees nothing but metal. Time to make a choice.

The prince isn't looking at him. 

Martín only managed to grab his attention a few times today, in between his fights. Fleeting glances here and there. Discreet smiles. But he isn't _looking_. 

Instead, Andrés's eyes are trained on the princess as he converses with her, their wooden thrones set up side by side in the stands. 

Martín is getting ready for the final round of the tournament – another joust that he's going to win _for him_ – and Andrés isn't looking. He only has eyes for the ginger whore, and her delicate smile, and her matching crown. They look infuriatingly good, next to each other. Like fate brought them together. 

His prince always seems in his element when he wears the crown, when he sits on a throne, surrounded by his court. Oh, he hates it. Martín knows that much. He's probably bored out of his mind, right now. But with his elegant features, with the way he holds himself, looking down on everyone around him… well, he looks like he belongs there. Regal, as always.

“Handsome couple, aren't they?”

Martín doesn't flinch at the words, but his fingers tighten around the pommel of his sword reflexively. He drags his eyes away from Andrés and brings his attention to the knight standing by his side. 

“Yes of course!”, Martín croaks, a fake smile plastered across his face. “A stunning pair, these two. His Highness and the princess will make a perfect match.”

The knight returns Martín's smile, but there's an edge to it. He's not actually here to indulge in idle gossip. He's baring teeth. They both are.

He introduced himself as Gandía earlier today, but Martín knew him already. How could he not? Ser César The Merciless is feared and admired all over the kingdom. 

And he will be his final opponent today.

Martín isn't scared of him. Nor is he thrown off by his reputation for brutality, for cruelty. But he'll admit it, the man does look the part. He stands tall next to Martín, imposing. And his gaze, alert, piercing through him– there's something unsettling about it. 

Gandía returns his attention to the Royal _couple_.

“Maybe this one won't make an impotent king, after all…”

Martín's mask of politeness is forgotten in an instant.

“The fuck did you say?”

Gandía's smile only grows wider. He's amused by Martín's outrage. 

Shit.

“You're close to the prince, aren't you?”, he continues, and his friendly tone isn't fooling Martín for a second. “You've probably heard something. Still unmarried at his age? With those looks? There must be something wrong, you know. _Down there._ Maybe it doesn't work. Or he's half of a man. Deformed.” 

Ser César laughs, then, a dry and unnerving sound, and Martín cannot take offense. He cannot deny anything. But oh, how he wants to. _Half of a man?_ Please. If he only knew... 

Before Martín has settled on a reply, Gandía speaks again.

“Well, maybe he's not impotent. Maybe he really does have quite an awful character. Or so I'm told.”

Martín barks out a laugh. He didn't even need to force it out, the sound just came out of him like a sigh of relief. Had those words been spoken by anyone else, maybe Martín would have found some humor in them. There are indeed many things that could be said about his prince's personality. Stubborn and selfish. Impatient, demanding, some might even say capricious. He's quite intense. A passionate soul. 

Martín wouldn't want him any other way.

“So, which is it?”, Gandía insists. “What's wrong with the man? His body? Or his mind?”

Martín thinks about his next words very carefully, as though Gandía's question has merit. It doesn't. But his reply does. 

He glances at his prince again, surprised to find him already looking in his direction. Their eyes meet, ever so briefly, and Martín perceives the hint of a smile on his lips before Andrés turns away from him. 

“There's absolutely nothing wrong with the prince”, he eventually replies, feigning disinterest. 

Gandía grins again, a frightening thing, and Martín's gut instincts are urging him to run. 

He fucked up, didn't he? Somehow, he stepped right into it, and the bear trap will bite down on his leg, any second now. 

“His Highness must have some sort of deviance, then. Which would make sense. Why else would a future king take low born scum in his service–”

“I'm as much of a knight as you are _, hijo de puta-_ ”

“And what are your _knightly duties_ , exactly? When the joust is done, are you to be washed and brought to his room?”

Martín should start laughing. He should make the grandest joke out of Gandía's words. He should slap him on the back and shout _'Good one, Ser César, such wit, such imagination!'_

But he just stares at him and gapes. Which, in and of itself, is not an admission. Gandía doesn't actually know anything. He's poking at random, trying to offend. To hurt. 

Martín will not give him the satisfaction.

“I wonder, Ser César, if it is in _your knightly duties”_ , he parrots, “to speculate about what goes on in royal bedchambers. Some comments you made. Some _accusations_. You do have a point though. I know His Highness well. I know he's had men executed for way less than that.”

Gandía bends his legs and bows his head in a mock curtsey before he grasps Martín's shoulder. Hard.

“See you on the field, _Ser_ Martín. Eyes wide open!”

The way he said it. _Ser_. Like an insult. Like he doesn't deserve his title. He clenches his fists by his sides, almost painfully. At least, he’s in the mood for a fight. How convenient.

And of course, the piece of shit walks off with the last word, guiding his horse towards the other end of the field. Marching, really. Awfully pleased with himself. His mother should have thrown him in the river, that one. He was probably an ugly baby too. With cruel little eyes. An unlovable beast.

The snide remarks about his low birth barely even registered. Martín's heard them all. But the comments Gandía made about his prince– 

Those cannot go unpunished. 

At least, Martín is no longer burdened with the thought of the princess, and how close she is to ruining his life. He now has the best of distractions. A sacred mission. He needs to destroy this man if it's the last thing he does. And he'll do it in style. As always.

Martín smiles at him before mounting his own horse, and the way Gandía is staring at him makes his blood turn to ice in his veins. When he finds his mark, Martín lowers the visor of his helmet in front of his face. 

Or maybe he shouldn't. 

He never liked having his vision impaired by the visor, protecting him, yes, but obstructing his sight greatly. He cannot help but notice how Gandía kept his visor up. His words are messing with Martín's head. _'Eyes wide open',_ he said. With the way his opponent wears his helmet, he's going to have the advantage over Martín, isn't he? He'll see what Martín doesn't. He'll trick him, somehow.

Martín is no fool, he is expecting _something_. Ser César did not get his reputation from his acts of kindness, after all.

 _'Careful with that one',_ Andrés warned him just this morning, holding Martín tighter than usual. _'Ser César isn't like the knights you're used to fighting. Don't be reckless. Don't get yourself– No need to show off, Martín. That's an order.'_

 _Don't get yourself hurt_ , his prince didn't say. But the unspoken words still lay, heavy, between them.

Martín took offense at the implication, of course he did. If he's good enough to protect His Grace, night and day, surely he has nothing to fear from the likes of Gandía. That man deserves to be publicly humiliated. Martín will show off if he wants to. 

He'll make it impossible for Andrés to look at anyone but him.

Ser Martín assumes the position, waving at his audience proudly, but he's starting to feel trapped in there, like his armor is caving in, swallowing him. He sees nothing but metal. Time to make a choice.

Fuck it.

At the last moment, Martín decides to raise the visor of his helmet again. The fucker will not get him.

He turns his head, blows one last kiss towards the stands, and grips his shield tighter.

Then it all happens so fast. 

The joust master lowers his flag, and suddenly both horses are galloping towards each other. Martín's eyes are trained on Gandía, his breathing controlled. Focused. _Ready_.

It's only when Martín tries to aim his spear at Ser César's shield that he notices. He doesn't have a shield. He sees Gandía's closed fist a second too late. 

Martín swerves from his course, narrowly avoiding the spear his opponent is aiming right at his heart. 

But he fails to avoid what Gandía throws at his face. 

Holding onto the reins of his horse, Martín manages, by some miracle, to stay upright on his saddle. His horse slows down, he assumes, at the end of the field. Someone shouts in victory, he assumes, Ser César. Martín wipes the warm wetness from his face, he assumes, blood. He _assumes_ , because he doesn’t know. 

Because he can no longer see. 

Panic courses through him, even more debilitating than the pain. If he weren’t so used to being on horseback, this is the exact moment when he would have fallen, given up, given out. 

The thing Gandía threw at him, whatever it was, landed right in his face, blinding him. It’s as though a dozen tiny blades are piercing through his skin, sinking into his eyes. A fistful of sand, he realizes. Sand and stones. Sharp ones.

Worse than the pain, than the sudden blindness, is the shame. How confident Martín felt, how recklessly he behaved. He knew Gandía to be a dangerous man. Knew, too, that he was taunting him on purpose. To distract him. To make him angry and impulsive and so fucking stupid. 

And it worked. 

Ser César himself warned him. _Eyes wide open_. Smug bastard. 

He tries. Martín’s eyes are as open as can be. He sees nothing but light. Bright and painful. And by his side, a shadow.

“Martín!”, he hears, and after a few blinks of his eyes, he can sense the presence of his squire, a figure he guesses rather than sees, holding onto his horse. “Shit, Martín, you alright?”

Martín can’t help it. He bursts out laughing. With a trembling hand, he points to his own face, to the warm blood he feels streaming down his cheeks, to his burning eyes.

“Am I _alright?_ Well, take a fucking guess, Denver!”

The poor boy stares at him with wide eyes, and Martín has never been so happy to see that stupid look on his face. 

Because he does _see_ it. 

Not well. Not clearly. But enough. If his aching eyes weren’t already filled with tears _–_ probably _–_ Martín would weep with relief. He hasn’t lost his sight after all. Not entirely.

As he looks back towards the stands, he can make out the distant figure of his prince, standing in front of his throne, moving frantically. Martín cannot see well enough to read the words on his lips, and he’s way too far to hear them. 

What he does hear, however, is the booming sound of Gandía’s voice.

“Alright, lords and ladies, where is my flower crown?”

Fuck no. Only the champion of the tournament can hold the trophy. Martín hasn’t fallen from his horse, has he? He’s entitled to a second round. 

“Denver, where the fuck is my spear?”

He feels a hand on his leg, calling his attention. Trying to _appease_ him, perhaps. Good luck with that.

“The prince said to tell you this”, Denver starts. “If a knight wishes to forfeit after having been injured, that would be acceptable. There is no dishonor in healing yourself.” 

Martín stares at his squire’s blurry face, dumbfounded. 

Andrés thinks him weak, doesn’t he? Why else would he offer his poor, damaged knight the coward’s way out.

“Just get off your horse, alright?”, Denver insists. “The tournament’s over.”

Like hell it is!

Martín’s head is pounding, burning with righteous anger. He looks over at Andrés again. The prince is no longer agitated, but still clearly focused on him. Martín doesn’t need his full sight to know what that means. 

_It was an order, Ser Martín, and you will obey your liege_. 

And that is indeed his first instinct. To obey, without question, without hesitation. But the thing is– Andrés never ordered him to withdraw from a joust before. Which can only mean one thing. 

He doesn’t believe Martín can win.

“Denver, I asked for my spear, didn’t I?”

“But, the prince–”

“I’ll take care of the prince. Do your fucking job before I find myself another squire.”

“Yes, Ser Martín.”

Denver never calls him Ser. His face must look even worse than he thought. Disfigured, terrifying. He’ll worry about that later. 

Soon enough, there’s a spear in his hand again, and silence falls around him. His captivated audience thought him a coward too, it seems. Wonderful. Martín waves at his prince one last time, assumes the position again, and throws his shield to the ground. Dead weight.

His squire picks it up, confused.

“Wait–”

“Cheer for me, will you, Denver? Ser Martín The Blind. Let’s see if it catches on.”

“But, without a shield you’ll–”

The joust master gives the sign and Martín’s is racing on the field again. 

Of course he got rid of his shield. If Ser César doesn’t have his, Martín won’t burden himself with one. He doesn’t need it for what he’s about to do, anyway. It's true, his chances of victory aren’t high. Not when he cannot see well. Not if he plays it by the book.

Which is why Martín does not aim his spear at Gandía. Not at his heart, not at his head. That would be impossible. 

Instead, he aims for his saddle. 

He ducks his head fast enough to avoid Gandía’s spear – pointed at Martín’s neck this time, how lovely – and waits until he feels his own spear sink into the leather of the saddle.

Then he jumps from his horse.

Martín holds onto his spear like his life depends on it – it probably does – and uses it as a lever to propel his entire body towards his opponent. He aims both of his feet at Gandía's chest and kicks him off his horse.

But Martín fails to sit, to straddle Gandía's horse like he was hoping to, the momentum making him sway uncontrollably. He’s balancing both of his feet on the saddle, his hands in a tight grip around the spear still lodged into the thick leather. 

Martín is lucky to be a knight, because he sure makes a shitty acrobat.

When the horse has slowed down enough for him to jump off, Martín shifts his feet on the saddle, bracing himself– only to feel a sudden blow to his leg and fall to the ground.

Everything hurts. 

Most of all, his eyes. But he does see Gandía standing right above him. The other knight throws aside the piece of his broken spear he had in hand – what he just used to hit Martín’s leg – and unsheathes his sword in one swift move. 

What the actual fuck? 

The joust is over. Martín won. Ser César touched the ground before he did, the rules are clear.

Martín hears screams. Horrified screeches from ladies, a few disgruntled knights. They're little more than background noise to him. If only the sky could stop spinning, maybe he would be able to stand up. 

“Enough tricks! You’ll fight me like a man.”

Gandía has no right to be doing this. Sword fights cannot settle a joust, and Martín can actually hear the trumpets, signaling the end of the fight, his victory, so why is he–

Before Martín can mentally comb through the tournament rules, Gandía raises his sword above his head, and there lies Martín’s priority. Not dying. He rolls to the side just a moment before the sword hits the ground.

Well... Look who could have used a shield, after all. Fate tends to be funny like that. 

“Sore loser, are we, Ser César?”, Martín taunts as he rushes to a standing position, and oh, what a bad idea that was. 

He’s feeling way too dizzy to come out of this fight in one piece. He takes a few steps back.

“Is that how you got your precious nickname? The Merciless?”, he stalls, unsheathing his own sword. “Hitting a man on the ground? How brave–”

Gandía lunges at him.

Martín raises his sword just in time to counter the attack, the loud clang of metal only adding to the pounding in his head. He gives every last bit of effort he has left in him, every piece of fury, of despair, before his body inevitably gives out. Not long, now, until Martín slips up. He moves and he screams, in a daze. He fights back, because he cannot let go just yet. But he will. Slowly, surely, he will.

And at last, he hears the distant voice of his prince.

“Stop this madness!”

Martín recoils, still countering every one of his opponent’s attacks, still striking back. He cannot obey that order. Although Andrés is most likely addressing it to Gandía rather than Martín. But the man doesn’t hear his prince, doesn't stop his assaults, and neither does Martín. In his moment, stopping means death. 

_“Enough!”_

Andrés’s voice is surprisingly close, and Martín kneels down without a second thought. The blade Gandía was swinging towards his neck flies right above his head, and he looks around in confusion. Martín smirks as he bows his head, sticking his sword in the ground. Leaning against it, really.

Out of the corner of his eye, Martín sees his opponent drop to his knees next to him, slowly, reluctantly. The speed at which Martín knelt for his prince made him look bad in comparison. Disobedient. Faithless.

“There was no need for such a spectacle”, Andrés states, cold and distant. Fury brimming underneath. “A champion has been crowned already. Ser Martín, you may stand.”

Just as Martín is wondering how on earth he’ll manage to stand up without falling miserably, Andrés holds out a hand and helps him on his feet. 

Martín doesn’t actually feel his touch. He can’t. Even his hands are covered in armor. Still, warmth spreads through him, starting from the spot where Andrés’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist. Even through the dizziness, the pain, he feels a smile splitting his face open. He cannot help it, not when Andrés is so close, so present for him. 

His prince eyes him curiously, and it takes Martín a while to remember why. Right. His fucked up face. Before he can feel sorry for himself, Andrés grabs Martín’s arm and raises it to the sky. 

“An ovation for Ser Martín, champion of the royal tournament. Once again making his kingdom proud.” 

The cheers erupt and Martín allows himself to bask in them, just for a little while. He never did any of this for the praise, for the glory. But damn, does he enjoy the sweet taste of victory. Almost sweet enough to mask the taste of metal, the taste of blood, still on his tongue. 

All too soon, Andrés lets go of his arm and turns on his heels, returning to his place. To his throne. Martín doesn't look at him, nor at princess Tatiana, waiting for him by the stands. 

Because, sweetest of all, Gandía is still on his knees when someone shoves the flower crown into Martín’s hands. The knight hasn't been dismissed before the prince left the field. 

Martín has half a mind to throw that stupid flower crown at his face. He asked for it, didn’t he? Why not let Ser César have his flowers? Martín can do without them. He'll settle for the title of champion, no need to be greedy. 

But he fights the urge – no matter how tempting – for his prince's sake. He knows how much Andrés enjoys this tradition. 

With trembling fingers, Martín picks a red bloom from the flower crown, slowly walking up to the first row of the stands. Most of the ladies aren't even trying to hide the horror on their faces as Martín approaches them. Not that he would ever want to obtain their favor, quite obviously, but still. Way to stomp on a man's ego. 

One lady doesn't wince at the sight of him, doesn't look away, and Martín is thankful for it. Thankful, too, because she's sitting right in front of the prince, who is looking straight at Martín from his pedestal, a few rows behind the woman.

“Lady Mónica, is it?”, Martín asks, proud of himself for remembering. 

She holds out her arm for him, and he makes a show of bowing his head in devotion, as he takes her hand and kisses it. 

“Ser Martín”, she purrs, “congratulations on your victory.”

Martín offers her his most dashing smile and hands her the single red flower from his victor's crown. 

“My Lady, I pray you’ll accept this token of my affection”, he recites, meaningless words he now knows by heart. “This humble knight wishes to earn your favor.”

Lady Mónica takes the flower from his trembling hand. Her smile is genuine, and with the way she shakes her head in embarrassment, fiddling with her blonde curls, one could almost be fooled and think her smitten. A great actress is what she is. An unexpected ally.

Martín makes a final curtsey, a respectful bow that causes only minor pain to his legs, and he doesn't miss the way Andrés nods as he looks at him. 

They both know precisely where this knight's favor resides.

At last, Martín is allowed to make his triumphant exit, and he does so under deafening applause. Of course, he remembers Andrés gave the command. That he _ordered_ his subjects to praise him. But he doesn’t care one bit. Maybe he does deserve their cheers. Maybe he stole them. Either way, that was never where his priorities lay. 

Ser Martín couldn't give two shits about his audience, about _making his kingdom proud._

Today, he made his prince proud. That's the only victory a knight should ever need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> ~~~  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> ~~~  
> 
> 
> Stunning art of [Ser Martín](https://twitter.com/thorined/status/1297485488744349696) and [Prince Andrés](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EhZWx8bWsAEOsxq?format=jpg&name=small) created by the wonderful Aleks (@[thorined](https://twitter.com/thorined)).  
> I love them and I love you.


	3. In shining armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín does see the stark contrast between the two of them. The thick velvet of Andrés's cape, the shining silver of his crown. He's not a king yet, but he looks like one. Martín's armor, stained and coated in dirt, feels heavier than ever in this moment. 
> 
> And still, it's him Andrés is looking at. Martín, at last, warrants the privilege of his undivided attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pledge my first-born child to [boom slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap) for lending me her beta-reading talents. And for reasons to be disclosed at a later time, she has a claim on my second-born too, if she wants.

“Alright, that was the last one”, Mirko announces as he pulls out the sharp fragment of rock embedded in Martín’s cheekbone. “Nothing else we can do. It will heal.”

“Thank fuck!”

He looks around in the medical tent, but Mirko hands him a wet cloth before he even asks. And a small mirror. Martín takes them and starts cleaning up his face and neck. 

He doesn’t let his eyes linger on his own reflection for longer than he needs to. He just holds the mirror while he wipes at his skin. The man staring back at him is cold and tired, drenched in blood and grime.

The cuts on his face are not particularly pretty, but Martín is still in one piece, isn't he? Scars are commonplace for knights. Tokens of bravery, he’s told. He’ll have to get used to it. He may even grow proud of them, one day. When the pain has become but a memory, and only the story of his valor remains. 

But the cuts are not the issue. Before he can stop himself, he asks what he really wants to know.

“And… and my eyes?”

Martín feels his stomach drop when Mirko doesn’t answer. 

Shit.

His friend frowns, clearly looking for the right words, and that’s perhaps the worst part. The mindfulness. 

The pity.

“I don’t know”, Mirko eventually says, and Martín averts his eyes. “I got everything out of your eyes, so it _will_ get better, but _–_ I don’t know if it will be the same. Maybe it will, I don’t know, I _–_ I’m sorry, Ser.”

“You’re not gonna start calling me ‘Ser’ too, are you? Because I sure am not calling you that, even after they knight you.”

Mirko smiles, as he always does when someone mentions it. Well, he’d better. Martín pulled a lot of strings to get him that title. Not that Mirko doesn’t deserve it, of course. They’ve been training quite a lot, these past few months. He’s ready.

But no matter how much pride Martín takes in his knighthood, he never liked having his friends call him ‘Ser’. 

Unlike Andrés, Martín wasn’t born with a title. He earned it. Through hard work, and perhaps his royal connections too. But he could never forget where he came from. Martín is, first and foremost, a commoner. A low-born. A nobody. 

So he refuses to let the people he considers his equals treat him like he’s any better than them. He isn’t. He just got lucky.

The lords and ladies, however? That’s a different story. 

If any of them ever forgets to address him by his title, he's ready for a fight. He knows his prince will stand by him, always. Martín even corrected Andrés’s own brother more than once. 

Prince Sergio does tend to slip up and call him by his given name. Or worse.

 _“I believe it says_ ‘Ser Martín’ _on the armor, doesn’t it Your Highness?”_

It never gets old, watching Sergio fumble. Embarrassing him, angering him. Andrés doesn't like it when he taunts his brother. But Martín knows for a fact that he also disapproves of the way Sergio speaks to him. He heard them argue about it a couple of times. His heart always swells when he remembers the way his prince defended him. 

With fire. With passion. 

He'll make a great king, one day, eloquent, spirited. Entitled, and rightly so; Andrés is owed everything.

Or perhaps a tyrant, ruthless and vengeful. Only time will tell.

Martín knows Andrés will sit on the throne soon enough. He prays the day won't come _too_ _soon_. Selfishly. A lowly knight can't have as much of a king as what Martín has of the prince. 

Or perhaps he was never meant to have any of him at all. He can already feel Andrés slip away from his fingers. These days, Martín has less and less of his time, of his attention. It was expected, especially with a royal guest staying at the castle. A _suitress_. 

Martín will take what he's been given. He'll take more, if he fancies himself bold. He'll take all of him and hold onto whatever he can. For as long as he's allowed.

He pulls himself out of his pointless reveries and finishes up with the cloth. When he deems his face bearable again, he puts the mirror down and starts looking around. He tries to focus on things to stare at, tries to will them into appearing more clearly.

It doesn’t put as much strain on his eyes as he feared, but Mirko still throws him a worried look.

“You can’t force it. It will take time.”

Before Martín can send him to mind his own business, someone barges into the medical tent. 

“Oh, you’re here!”, Denver cheers, slightly out of breath. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You can still see, right?”

Martín cannot help but laugh at the lack of tact. It’s refreshing, actually.

“Yes, I can still kick your ass too. What do you want?”

His squire produces a small piece of parchment. 

“I didn’t know if I had to give it to you or if I should read it out loud… You know, like a royal proclamation?”

“You’re not the fucking town crier, Denver. Just hand it here.”

Martín grabs the paper and carefully unrolls it. He would rather not have anyone read out loud whatever message this is. 

Besides, he’s not entirely sure that Denver _can_ read. The boy did seem pretty nervous at the prospect.

The words are somewhat blurry, and it makes his eyes ache to focus on them for too long, but Martín doesn’t mind. Especially when he recognizes, as expected, the elegant curves of his prince’s handwriting.

_‘The game has ended, Ser Martín. A knight must know when to fight, and when to lay down his weapons.’_

Martín feels a smile tugging at his lips. He knows what he has to do.

He stands up abruptly, and doesn’t feel as dizzy as he should. 

“Fine gentlemen, this is where I leave you”, he announces, nearly bouncing on his feet. 

Mirko still looks worried.

“You need someone to walk with you? Your eyes–”

“You took everything out, didn’t you?”, he cuts him off. “I trust fate to restore the rest.”

Right before he leaves, Martín picks up his discarded flower crown from the table. Almost an afterthought. He should have left it behind, it’s a silly thing, but _–_ It matters to him. It’s his reminder that he’s today’s champion, if nothing else. 

Night has almost fallen when Martín makes his way out of the medical tent, just outside the field where the joust took place. It seems he stayed there longer than he thought, getting his injuries treated and his ego bruised. 

He wishes that it hadn’t taken so long. That he hadn’t made his prince wait.

The field is deserted now, and Martín is thankful for the cover of darkness as he slips away behind the stables, towards the armory. 

To _‘lay down his weapons’,_ as Andrés wrote. Martín likes to think his damaged eyes can still decipher a coded message when it’s handed to him.

As he steps into the armory, he realizes that this is the first time he’s being left alone since the joust. Alone, alone at last. No one is trying to talk to him, to praise his bravery, to poke at his face. A blessing. It's warm and quiet in the room. Peaceful. The swords and shields on display, the crossbows on the shelves– The sight is familiar, comforting even. 

And yet. 

It all seems distorted. The weapons are too close, the walls too high. Martín should be relieved, but he cannot stop thinking about what happened. What could have happened. 

In the dark, empty armory, the severity of today's events finally settles, a burden on his shoulders, a pressure constricting his chest. Martín can barely breathe. He braces himself against the wall and falls heavily on one of the benches, suddenly drained. 

The flower crown threatens to slip out of his shaky hand, and he sets it aside next to him on the bench. 

Andrés isn't here. 

Maybe Martín misunderstood. He prides himself with knowing his prince well, with always understanding what is expected of him. But lately he's been feeling off. Unsure. He blames Gandía.

He blames Tatiana. 

Most of all, he blames himself. It's Martín who was impulsive. Foolish. He had to show off, didn't he? He couldn't accept that Andrés's eyes were elsewhere, even though he knows– He knows why. After all these years, he should be used to it. Andrés will never be just _his_. He never was. 

And because of his own troubled thoughts _–_ of his own weakness _–_ Martín fucked up today. To colossal proportions. He didn't realize it fully then, but he does now. He could’ve gotten hurt. Well, he did. 

He could have gotten killed. 

And he actually came quite close. He expects Andrés to punish him for his disobedience. 

Perhaps this is it. Sending him to the armory, to wait alone for a prince who has no intention of meeting him there. Andrés’s absence is his penance. Martín still waits for him. He’s always waiting for him.

He finds the ties of his breastplate and tries unfastening them. Whether Andrés makes an appearance or not, Martín has yet to change, so he might as well do it now. His full suit of armor is weighing on his body. And it needs to be cleaned, after Gandía pushed him off his horse and he went rolling in the dirt. Or he won’t be the knight in shining armor, not in that state.

But his fingers are trembling so much, he can't even manage to remove the gauntlets of his suit. Let alone everything else. 

He’s about to give up when he hears the door creak behind him, soft footsteps, and the loud metallic sound of the key, locking them alone together. 

Martin breathes a sigh of relief. Fortune definitely favors him today.

He stands up and slowly turns around, all wide eyes and coy smiles.

“Your Grace... I wasn't expecting you.”

Andrés raises his eyebrows at his shameless lie, his eyes drifting up and down Martín's body. 

“Then you shall be forgiven for your poor presentation. Look at the state of that armor. That's no manner of dress in the presence of royalty.”

Martín does see the stark contrast between the two of them. The thick velvet of Andrés's cape, the shining silver of his crown. He's not a king yet, but he looks like one. Martín's armor, stained and coated in dirt, feels heavier than ever in this moment. 

And still, it's him Andrés is looking at. Martín, at last, warrants the privilege of his undivided attention.

“Maybe I should take it off, then”, he offers. “I wouldn't want to offend my prince.”

Andrés walks up to him, cups his face with both hands, and looks at him intently. Martín can see the worry in his eyes as he takes in his injuries. 

“Are you in pain?”, Andrés eventually asks.

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

_“Martín.”_

His smile turns forced when he feels soft fingertips brushing against the fresh scraps on his face. He winces, a pained whimper escaping his lips.

“I hate it when you lie to me.”

“It will heal”, Martín says instead. “People said I had too smooth a face for a knight, anyway. Not anymore.”

“And your eyes?”

“I can see you just fine.”

When Martín sees the corner of Andrés's lips twitch, he knows these words were the right ones. He didn't actually say them to please him, he spoke with his heart. That's all that matters to him, being able to see his prince. That's all Martín needs his eyes for. 

Andrés caresses his cheekbone, not directly on the cut this time. A gesture meant to soothe, to comfort. But his stare is not comforting. 

“He'll pay for this”, Andrés says through gritted teeth.

Martín shrugs.

“It's fair play... Well, not _fair_. But it's allowed. It's my fault, I should have seen, I should have anticipated, I _–_ ”

Andrés silences him with two fingers on his lips.

“I warned you about him, Martín. I ordered you to be careful today. You disobeyed me.”

Martín closes his eyes in shame. 

Andrés was never one to forgive and forget. Especially not offenses against him. The prince has no patience for disobedience.

Martín expects more of that, which is why his eyes snap open in shock when he feels warmth around his wrists, where Andrés's nimble fingers are untying pieces of his armor. He makes quick work of that, and soon, both of the metal gauntlets are set on the bench next to him.

And his prince's hands are holding his, the softness, the warmth, overwhelming.

“That thing you did. On the horse. Had you ever done that before? Were you trained?”

Martín smiles. He doesn't know which answer will make his prince less angry, so he just tells him the truth.

“The road warriors we met in the southern kingdom, a few years back.”

“The wild tribe”, Andrés starts, and Martín nearly cuts him off. “I mean, the nomads.”

His father the King called them _savages,_ but Andrés never did. He let Martín convince him to sneak away to their camp, dressed as commoners. They spent a few wonderful nights dancing and drinking with the road warriors, before they burrowed further into the forest and made love under the stars. 

Andrés smiles, and Martín knows he's thinking about it too.

“So this is how their people fight”, Andrés remembers, “always on horseback.”

“When they stand on the saddle, they're one with their steed. They seem invincible. One of them showed me how to do it, but I never _–_ ”

“You'd never practiced it in single combat”, Andrés finishes. 

“No, I hadn't.”

“And yet, you tried it today. Against The Merciless. While your sight was impaired.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And you disobeyed orders from your liege.”

“I did.”

Andrés is smiling at him, his eyes glazed over, as though in emotion, as though in sorrow, and _–_

He wraps his arms around Martín and embraces him, his chin resting on his shoulder. The metal of the armor can't be comfortable against his delicate skin, but he stays there for a few moments, just holding him. 

It confuses Martín but he welcomes it, he welcomes it all. He hadn't realized, before it happened, just how much he needed to be held. 

“You would be deserving of such harsh punishment, Ser Martín”, Andrés whispers, hoarse, barely audible. 

“I know.” 

Martín doesn’t move a finger. He can't see Andrés's face, just feels his labored breathing against his neck, the hand pressed behind his nape. 

When his prince speaks again, his voice is steadier. His words, a slap and a caress. 

“All is forgiven.”

Andrés steps away and looks into his eyes. He must read Martín's confusion on his face, because he offers him a smile. He offers him everything.

“Your recklessness”, he explains. “Your _disobedience_. I won’t hold it against you. But Martín, I forbid you– I forbid you from scaring me like that again. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace”, Martín starts, before correcting himself _. “Andrés._ Yes. I promise.”

“Good. Because I didn't summon you to teach you yet another lesson.”

Andrés leans over to grab something behind him. Martín understands when he sees the flower crown in his hands. He only catches a glimpse of it, bright reds and deep purples, before his prince holds it above him, lays it on his head. 

When Andrés pulls away, there's a flower in his hand. A red one, from the victor's crown.

He brings it to his nose and looks at Martín with a smile. 

“A token of affection from my champion. It's mine, isn't it?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Everything Martín's is Andrés's to claim.

He pins the flower to his own cape, and Martín pretends the sight doesn't make his heart flutter. 

“People will notice.” 

“I hope they do. I hope they ask about it. My knight accomplished such a feat today. I don't think I will have the heart to discuss anything else.”

Martín is undeserving. He was ready for a punishment. He would have accepted it.

When Andrés's lips are pressed against his, hard, insistent, he decides it does not matter what he deserves or not. 

And because Andrés took off his gloves, Martín can actually feel their fingers interlace between them as he receives the kiss, skin against skin, lips against lips. He wants to weep at the gift he's been given. His touch, his forgiveness, one and the same.

Martín kisses him back with all the fervor he can muster. He moans when Andrés slides his tongue between his lips and starts walking him backwards towards the wall. Martín lets himself be pushed against it. Lets himself be held gently, kissed forcefully. Devoured. 

Andrés stops licking into his mouth, and instead nibbles and bites at his lips, and Martín hears his own whimper echo in the room. 

He tries to ignore the pang of arousal that hits him when Andrés presses both of his hands against the wall. A silent command. He cannot move. He cannot take. He can only receive, and he does so gratefully.

All sorts of weapons are hung on the wall. Blades and spears and arrows. And right in the middle, the knight. Pinned to it as well, ready to fall.

Andrés lets go of his hands first, and sinks his teeth into Martín's lip one last time before he pulls away. His eyes are dark, his mouth curved into a smirk. Martín needs his prince to kiss him again.

With his hazy mind, it takes a moment for him to notice what Andrés is doing. He doesn't feel, but he sees, his hands undoing on the ties or his armor. His movements, fast and focused. 

Martín's eyes dart towards the door.

“I left a guard outside. No one will disturb us.”

Andrés makes quick work of untying the piece of armor, and soon enough, there is a loud clang of metal hitting the floor. 

The groin plate is the only piece of armor Andrés bothers to take off, and Martín is painfully aware of how hard he already is. The fabric of his breeches is tenting, poking out between the faulds.

Andrés's hands stop there. He doesn't turn Martín around, face-first against the wall. He doesn't try to remove anything else. 

So it seems neither of them has the patience to take off that damned armor. Martín can work with that. He sneaks a hand under Andrés's cape and finds him hard too. He palms his cock through his pants and he grows under his touch, he burns. Martín can never get his hands off him.

Andrés groans at the way he caresses him, his hips rock against Martín’s hand. His response, any response from him, always makes Martín swell, with pride, with want. 

But before he knows it, his arm is shoved away, his hand grasping at the empty air. 

Which makes no sense at all. Not when his prince so clearly desires him.

“Just– Just let me”, Martín tries, but his attempt to move is blocked immediately by Andrés's arm across his chest, pushing him back against the wall. “Please, let me touch you. I can get on my knees for you, if you like.”

“You’re not kneeling today, Martín.”

“Let me take off the armor, then. I’ll be quick, you won't have to wait.”

“I never have to wait for what I want.” 

And there’s a hand on Martín’s cock, a touch so sweet, even through the fabric. 

Andrés pulls him out of his breeches and starts stroking him, slow but insistent. He leans in and nibbles at his neck as he pleasures him with his hand.

“The armor stays on, _Ser Martín”,_ Andrés purrs against his skin. “It’s you that I want to please, today. You earned a great victory. On days like this, a knight could earn a lady’s favor for his valor…”

Martín lets out a choked little laugh. 

“We both know I don’t want that.”

“Which is why I’m the one dispensing your reward.”

His soft hand, his precise movements, send darts of pleasure across his skin. Martín struggles to keep his eyes open. He wants to look at his prince as he receives his touch. 

But Andrés soon lets go of his throbbing cock and pins him with a look. Martín knows better than to disobey again. He stays right where he is, his palms flat against the wall. 

And he's thankful he has something to brace himself against when he sees his prince sink down to his knees in front of him. 

“Your Grace?”

They haven't done this is a while. Martín would never request it, he always insists on being the one to pleasure his prince _._

“What’s the matter? You kneel for me all the time.” 

“Because I must. It is my duty to serve.”

Andrés quirks an eyebrow.

“Is that really why you do it? Out of obligation?”

Martín bites his lip.

“You know it isn't.”

He feels the warmth of his hand again, holding his cock but not stroking. Pointing it to his mouth.

He parts his lips, reddened from their kiss, slick, swollen... Martín’s breath catches in his throat when he takes in the sight of him. His prince, on his knees for another, giving when he should receive, when he should take. 

That sight alone drives Martín close to insanity. He loses all the fight that was left in him. 

“I promised you a reward, didn't I? Your liege is a man of his word.”

With his hand still around him, Andrés leans in and traces his lips along his cock. Martín gasps, already out of breath. Andrés looks up at him and presses further, mouthing at his sensitive skin. Little flicks of his tongue, brushes from his mouth, but he’s not licking, not sucking. The delicate touches are enough to send shivers down Martín’s spine. His body is begging for more, so much more, but he doesn’t take more, doesn’t ask for anything. 

Andrés is slow, refrained, in the way he puts his mouth on him. Delicate, yes, but not squeamish. Martín knows he’s taunting him on purpose. He stands still and lets his prince play with him. However he likes, for as long as he desires.

His patience is rewarded when Andrés starts leisurely lapping at his cock. Martín whimpers, in pleasure, in need. He feels a slight chuckle, a hot breath against his skin. Martín can guess the curve of a smile on his face, the crinkle around his eyes. 

All at once, Andrés’s hand moves again and he swirls his tongue around the head of his cock while he strokes him. The pleasure is sudden and intense, pooling under his skin. 

Up to this point, Martín managed to control himself, to some extent. To only let out soft whimpers, low strangled sounds. 

His semblance of composure crumbles all at once.

Andrés’s hand stills, and he suddenly takes his cock into his mouth. He engulfs the head, and sinks down further, until his lips are pressed against his own fingers at the base of his cock. 

Martín’s moan is almost a scream. 

Which is when Andrés stops. He lets go of Martín and pulls away entirely, his hand, his mouth, leaving him burning for his touch.

“Tell me you’ll be quiet for me.”

Martín takes in a deep breath.

“I won't lie to you, Your Grace.”

Andrés smiles, visibly pleased with his answer, and unexpectedly leans in to wrap his lips around his cock again. Martín is even louder then. Being quiet when Andrés touches him is an order he could never obey. No matter how hard he tried. 

He can’t help it now, when he feels it all at once. His lips, his tongue, the insides of his mouth. The warmth around him, the delicious tightness. His sounds grow desperate, and he scratches at the wall behind him as he fights the urge to buck his hips, to push further into his prince’s mouth. 

Andrés is bobbing his head slowly, and Martín can only look down, transfixed, at the way his crown shifts on his head. Slightly askew in his hair, as Andrés picks up the pace, engulfing more of his cock into his mouth, so focused on his task. 

In this moment, Andrés is no king, no prince. For just a few minutes, he's something else. Just a man. Almost someone Martín could have, that he could–

Andrés swallows around him and Martín’s whole body tenses, his eyes roll back in his skull, and pleasure overpowers him. Andrés is no longer holding back, not even a little. His hands slide behind Martín's thighs to pull him closer, to push his cock deeper, and Martín wishes that he weren't wearing that fucking armor, that he could feel his touch on his skin too. 

But Andrés likes it, it seems. The armor, the reminder that Martín is a knight. _His_ knight. A prince doesn’t get on his knees, not for anyone, not ever. But for Ser Martín, he has. 

Worse, he doesn’t seem in any way put off by the act, degrading as it may be. Degrading as it should be. Andrés lets his eyes close, lets his mouth swallow him, and just like everything he does, he does it because he wants to. 

Martín is close. So close.

“Andrés…”, he warns.

His prince hums, low in his throat, and the sound sends vibrations through his body. He doesn’t stop.

“Your Grace…”, he tries again.

It’s fruitless. Andrés simply looks up at him, his eyes so bright, his lips stretched out around his cock obscenely. 

Andrés’s crown shifts again, threatening to fall off his head, and Martín is the one who takes the plunge. Staring at his prince, he loses the fight and comes in his mouth. 

Bright light flashes before his eyes as the wave of ecstasy crashes over him, and for a moment there, Martín fears he's been blinded again. But panic doesn't reach his head, pleasure has rendered him too weak, too hot, too blissed out, to register anything else. 

Martín goes limp against the wall.

He blinks a few times, confused, and when he can finally focus Andrés is standing again, facing him. 

Andrés adjusts his hair, repositions his crown, and just like that, he’s returned to how he’s meant to be. Proud and commanding. The picture of royalty. 

Martín looks at him in awe. He’s in a daze, volatile and breathless. Floating at heights he has yet to return from. 

He lets out a little laugh, surprising even himself. 

“What if another knight had won today?”, Martín quips, a smile still on his lips. “Would the reward have been the same?”

Andrés grins.

“I always gave you special treatment, didn't I?”

Martín realizes he doesn't know if Andrés spat or swallowed. He didn't even see him wince at the taste, when he knows His Highness to have a delicate palate.

Martín doesn't.

“My turn”, he croaks, licking his lips as he lets his hands roam. 

Andrés shakes his head and pushes him away before he can touch him or sink to his knees. 

“I'm afraid there is no time for this tonight.”

He offers an apologetic smile, as though Martín's disappointment surpasses his own. 

“Council meeting?”

“Diplomatic dinner”, Andrés sighs. “I'm quite late already, and you know His Majesty doesn't like to wait.”

Martín can sense in his tone that something is the matter. And he said ‘His Majesty’, not ‘my father’. Andrés is being forced to attend. 

“I'll get out of my armor and join you in a moment.”

Andrés frowns.

“Martín...”

“I'm not summoned, am I?”

“You're not”, he confirms. “It's not a feast. It's an official meeting.”

“I can stay by the door. Stand guard.”

“It's beneath you.”

“I don't mind”, Martín insists, before catching himself. “But I can tell I'm not welcome...”

“Only the council members. The lords and ladies.”

“And princesses.”

Andrés seems genuinely confused by Martín's words.

“So this is about Tatiana”, he taunts. “Don't be ridiculous. Are you afraid I might kiss her? After the way I used my mouth on you...”

The way he smiles at him, beautiful, shameless. Martín nearly chokes. 

“It's just dinner. I will not even sit by her side. After all, it would be extremely rude of me to get close to a princess, while my knight still lingers on my breath.”

Martín cannot help himself. He pulls him by the lapels of his cape and crashes his mouth against his. He might taste himself on his lips and he couldn't care less. Or perhaps he enjoys it. 

He wants Andrés to consume him.

And he does. He cups Martín's face and deepens the kiss, turns it into something dark, feverish. Martín sighs against his lips. He knows he's the greediest of them all. But it seems no touch from his prince can ever be enough. 

When they part and Andrés looks at him again, there's softness in his eyes. He stands in silence for a moment, his hands staying on Martín's face, studying him. 

“You’ll sleep in your own chambers tonight”, is what Andrés eventually says. 

Martín’s heart sinks.

Whatever it is he expected to hear, it wasn't this. His reaction must show on his face because Andrés takes his hand again.

“I urge you not to read into it”, he adds. “I’ll be attending to diplomatic matters until late into the night. And after today, you must be tired. You deserve the rest. I don’t want you to wait up for me.”

How thoughtful. 

Martín hates it.

Andrés lifts a hand to Martín's face and brushes his cheek one last time, a feather-light touch of his fingers. He holds his gaze and, for a moment there, Martín is certain Andrés will speak again. 

He doesn't. 

He just pulls Martín to him and brushes his lips against his forehead, making his breath catch in his throat with a whirlwind of emotion he can't name. 

In an instant, it's all over. There’s the loud click of the key, the door creaks open, and Andrés is gone. 

Martín's skin still tingles from his touch. From his words. 

That night, Martín is alone when he falls into bed. His bed. His room. 

Exhausted as he feels, rest eludes him.

_‘You’ll sleep in your own chambers tonight.’_

Not a suggestion. 

An order. 

Ser Martín lives to please, ever the loyal and devoted servant. He's used to getting orders from Andrés.

He disobeys that one.

He makes sure not to be seen, not to be heard, and quickly finds his way to the other side of the castle. 

The royal chambers are tragically empty but he sneaks in anyway, unnoticed. He's alone, still, but no longer restless. 

Only in the comfort of Andrés's bed – his scent surrounding him – does he find something resembling sleep. And even then, his slumber is light. Incomplete. 

Martín is surprised to feel his prince's embrace pretty soon, much sooner than he expected. 

It was really just dinner, then.

Andrés isn’t trying to wake him, or to ask anything from him. He simply wraps his arms around Martín and rests his chin against his head. Tenderly. Thinking him asleep. 

Maybe Martín shifts closer and presses his face against Andrés's chest. Maybe his fingers dig a little too hard into his sides as they lay there silently. If Andrés notices anything, he doesn’t say. 

Martín focuses on his breathing, on the feeling of Andrés’s body, fitting so well against his. Dreaming that if he holds him close enough, he'll be allowed to keep him. Just for a little while longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case y'all didn't have enough reasons to stan [boom slap](https://twitter.com/boom_slap), here's [another one](https://twitter.com/boom_slap/status/1311731256594436097?s=19). 🌹🌹🌹 Thank you for my champion.

**Author's Note:**

> ⚔️ 👑 ⚔️ 👑 ⚔️ 👑  
>  **@[ _shotgun-cake_](https://shotgun-cake.tumblr.com)** on Tumblr  
>  **@[ _Shotgun_Cake_](https://twitter.com/Shotgun_Cake?s=09)** on Twitter


End file.
